


The Boxing Builder from Islington

by TheWhiteLily



Series: Watson's Woes July Writing Prompts 2016 [5]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, Humour, Poor Sherlock, There's Always Something
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-16
Updated: 2016-07-16
Packaged: 2018-07-24 07:43:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,290
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7499841
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheWhiteLily/pseuds/TheWhiteLily
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There’s always something.  Sometimes, there’s a little bit more than that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Boxing Builder from Islington

**Author's Note:**

> For the Watsons Woes July 15th prompt: **Throw the book at ‘em** (Make a literary reference).  Possibly sideways of the prompt (or possibly double points on the prompt, given it's essentially an ouroboros?), but aside from a minor A. A. Milne reference, “Throw the book at ‘em” immediately took me to Samuel Vimes.  Which, of course, immediately lead on to…
> 
> (Oh, and before we start, I'm really, _really_ sorry about the accent. He wouldn't stop talking like that in my head--I just wrote it down because I couldn't do anything else. *dubious* Corrections gratefully accepted.)

 

> Samuel Vimes dreamed about Clues. He had a jaundiced view of Clues. He instinctively distrusted them. They got in the way. And he distrusted the kind of person who’d take one look at another man and say in a lordly voice to his companion, “Ah, my dear sir, I can tell you nothing except that he is a left-handed stonemason who has spent some years in the merchant navy and has recently fallen on hard times,” and then unroll a lot of supercilious commentary about calluses and stance and the state of a man’s boots, when exactly the same comments could apply to a man who was wearing his old clothes because he’d been doing a spot of home bricklaying for a new barbecue pit, and had been tattooed once when he was drunk and seventeen* and in fact got seasick on a wet pavement. What arrogance! What an insult to the rich and chaotic variety of the human experience!
> 
> \- Terry Pratchett, _Feet of Clay_  

* * *

“… an’ that’s it, I swear.  I didn’t mean t’do it, was an accident, an’ that’s the truth—but when I saw in the papers that _Sherlock ‘Olmes_ was on the case,” the man said, wringing his hands, “I knew it was no good tryin’ ta cover up nuthin’, so I thought it’d go easier for me if I came in and 'fessed up!”

“Right,” said Lestrade, still looking as shell-shocked as John felt.

The short, stout man was perched on the edge of his chair across the interview table, his round earnest face staring at Lestrade, willing him to believe.  His suit was neat and clean, if faded, his dress shoes battered but polished, and his comb-over was perfectly pressed to match.

Apparently he was an accountant.  He _looked_ like an accountant, even if he didn’t _sound_ like the kind of accountant John would have let anywhere near his records.

He did _not_ look like the tall, thin, man Sherlock had described, working on a building site in Islington, who had recently undergone surgery for a long-term knee injury he’d sustained in his successful career as an amateur boxer.

“Well, Mr… Garner,” said Lestrade, paging through the file apparently in lieu of something to do.  “It _does_ sounds like your account of the incident checks out with my facts, but… are you _absolutely sure_ about this?  You’re not, protecting anyone?  Or leaving anyone out?”

The man looked shocked.  “Of course not!” he said.  “It was me, just like I said, God be my witness.”

“Well,” said Lestrade, with an apologetic sideways glance at Sherlock, “you’ve certainly done the right thing coming forward.  You may wish to obtain legal representation to assist you with making your formal written statement, but once that’s done I see no reason why you wouldn’t be granted bail for the interim—”

“He's lying!” burst out Sherlock.  “It _wasn't him_.  The footprints at the scene _clearly_ showed the killer was a tall man: big feet, long stride.  Not…”

He glared at the perplexed looking little man in front of him in outrage.

“Oh, um,” said Mr Garner, and licked his lips.  “Always had big feet for me height.  Comes of—”  He broke off, and gave Donovan nervous look.  “Well, you know.”  He shrugged, glanced down briefly, and then back up to waggle his eyebrows at Sherlock conspiratorially.

John barely smothered a snort at the revolted look on Sherlock’s face.

“Not _that_ big,” Sherlock told him viciously, before returning to addressing Lestrade.  “And what about the stride length?  Those pavers were eighty centimetres apart, and our killer was matching stride with them.  That means a height of at least six feet, probably closer to six and a half.  This man _here_ would have to just about _jump_ to make that distance!”

Mr Garner looked shocked, and then a little embarrassed.  “Well, I guess I never got over that old rhyme about stepping in the squares, did I?  Not really as there’s any bears waiting.”  He laughed a little nervously under Sherlock’s intense glare of disgust.  “Just, you know… habit, innit?”

John risked a look at Donovan, who was biting her lip, staring at the confessing killer as though all her Christmases had come at once.  Beside her, Anderson’s eyes glowed with unholy vindication.

“You’ve never had knee surgery,” Sherlock snapped back.  “The killer _had_.  Gait didn’t match the wear pattern on his boots, he'd obviously had a limp corrected in the last six months.”

“Oh,” said the man, ducking his head apologetically, “I s’pose… s’pose, um, I wasn’t wearing _my_ shoes yesterday, was I?  The sole had come off one of 'em, an’ I took it in to the shop man on James St right near where it ‘appened, like, but then I was left wandering about ‘is shop in me socks, and ‘e said I could borrow an old pair o’ boots as never got picked up for a couple of hours while ‘e fixed mine?  They was a size or two big, but ‘e give me an extra pair of socks too, an’ that just about made ‘em—”

“That doesn’t make any sense,” growled Sherlock.  “A bootmaker wouldn’t have left clods of mud on boots in his shop; they would have been _clean_ when you put them on.  Besides, the particles of vegetative matter were fresh.  So, what, you took your allegedly borrowed boots on a flying visit to Islington, tromped around in the debris of a building site for a few minutes, before popping back to do a murder two streets away from where you’d picked them up?”

“Um.  Dunno ‘bout that.  Never ‘ad much cause to go over that side o’ town.  ’Sa puzzler, that one.  Oh, unless!  Yeah!  There _was_ this near accident I saw, over on the intersection with James and Broadwick down the way, just a’fore I crossed, an’ the lorry that had to stop in an ‘urry, like, mighta been a bit overfull?  ‘Coz a whole pile o’ dirt poured out onto the road, right there, an’ once they was clear, I prob’ly just walked right on through…”

Lestrade was staring at the man, wide-eyed, while on the other side of the room, Donovan and Anderson had fallen against each other, unable to stand up any longer with the effort of withholding their glee.

“Sherlock,” tried John, with the same care one might take approaching a wild, cornered animal.

“Are you a trained boxer, at least?” demanded Sherlock.  “You were carrying your weight forward and ready…”

“No?” said the man, looking even more confused.  “Ain’t never gone in for all o’ that.  Rather place a bet on some poor sod than take a beating meself.  But those boots, well, extra socks or no, they did rub summat awful on me heel, so I guess I was walkin’ around a bit on me toes tryin’ a keep ‘em from...”

He trailed off, fidgeting at the thunderous look on Sherlock's face.  "Did I get it right?" he asked nervously.

"Sherlock..." tried John again, reaching out a conciliatory hand.

Before he could make contact, though, Sherlock made a loud, wordless sound of rage, whirled, and stormed out of the interview room, letting the door bang shut behind him.

“Cor,” said Mr Garner, gazing after him.  “‘E’s _brilliant_ , innee?  Knows everything, right down to—”  He glanced downwards again, and then raised his eyebrows at Lestrade.  “Sure glad I turned meself in.  Can’t imagine _no-one_ pulling one over on _‘im_.”

Lestrade spent a long moment marshalling his admirably serious face, before he spoke.  “No indeed, Mr Garner,” he said.  “I must say, I couldn’t have imagined it either.”

On the other side of the room, Donovan and Anderson slid down the wall, clutching each other and silently crying with laughter.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Megabat for betaing, you are wonderful as always. :)
> 
> If you had got a giggle out of this, I'd suggest you also check out my story [Throwing Physics Out the Window](http://archiveofourown.org/works/9559565).


End file.
